Liquor From the Fire
by Sugar-Spoon-Moon
Summary: Jericho pushes CM Punk one step too far, and with a gift of alcohol, CM Punk crashes into temptation and gives in. Randy Orton/CM Punk


**A little piece based on a what if Punk had really drunk the gift basket whiskey. with Randy goodness added in too! please enjoy! Im really no good at um...emotional stuff so please forgive me for any weakness :) Forgive me if theres any mistakes its 1 am and Im writing like a beast KAWWWW**

**The second part of this story is in Italics to try and emphasize Punks intoxication, you know, how things apparently bend and stuff, I don't know I've never drunk before this is all me guessing pretty much XD**

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Title: Liquor From the Fire

**Characters: CM Punk/ Randy Orton**

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There was no escaping it. No way to easily refuse the devil in his DNA. No pure refusal to the demons lurking underneath his skin, the skeleton to his brain and the makeup of the costume that was built over the guts and the bones of his red design. There was a wilderness in Punk that demanded a sort of madness. But it wasn't without it's badly trained dragons. No domestic dogs who knew how to sit or play dead. No domestic peace in the way he was built.

He was fragile in so many ways, rocks sewed to the notorious halo.

CM Punk had his badly designed demons. The built in strength that preyed on his weakness. The monsters under his bed had been misplaced. It didn't lurk underneath his place of badly caught dreams or misplaced nightmares, that monster who your mother warned you about should you leave a foot lingering out of the sheets for too long it could nibble your toes, it wasn't hiding in the dark. CM Punk found it hiding in plain sight in that magic mirror of his. Every reflection was lined with the stitched grotesque fantasia that in the gloss of alcohol's haze in the eye gave. Sober, the fantasy of the monster was an obvious white clown.

Jericho...oh the gutless snake, the spineless, glittering fool. He was edging CM Punk further down the rabbit hole. That drug infused rabbit tumbling down his own dark construction. Perfuming Punks brain with whiskey, vodka, beer and their pleasant little friends. Smothering his vulnerability with the scent of a childhood set alight with his fathers myriad shots of whiskey. The incalculable amount of liquid courage his father needed to continue with life's eccentric nature.

He had truly relived his childhood in that bottle to the head, the beer in his throat. He had reverted back to the child he used to be, realizing, it wasn't a past he was faced with.

But the future.

He was still the child faced with an adult's problem. The true terror of the absence of the childhood. They were growing pains. Things only went downhill once you hit puberty. Your body began to rot as it grew and it began to give off the sweat dribbling out of the body. Girls bled, boys dreamt of outlandish sexual dreamscapes. Everything rotted from the inside out.

Until you were dead.

Maybe, potentially that's what his father had been drowning. The feeling of living. It only reminded him he was in the process of dying.

CM Punk had a childish manner in which he acted. From the boyish stained smile, to the gawky way he moved. From the comic books, to the angst. CM Punk was an undying child in a universe of adults. Punk was everything his father wasn't. CM Punk wasn't ready to put his action figures away or pack his dreams in the closet. He was living his childhood dream, and damned if it was his saviour.

CM Punk threw the door open to his locker room, he wiped his moist brow with the palm of his hand and screwed his eyes tight. Throwing his arm to his side as exhaustion and mental corrosion had its wicked way.

Jericho was pushing him, shoving him down this terror. Straight Edge gave him a brick wall to separate himself from the courage in the way of liquid. It gave him a stepping stone above the fall alcohol and it's little buddies had dug.

At the moment, CM Punk was swaying.

Punk shoved his title onto the bench and reached for his towel from the rack, wiping his face down from the sweat built up from his match with Ziggler. He dragged it down, across the colour stitched into his skin. The skull with an erupting sea serpent and the collage of decorative Japanese waves comforting the bone face. It was no doubt his favorite. A collage of his appreciation for the art of ink. Punk threw himself down onto the bench and rubbed his wet stomach with the towel. The words STRAIGHT EDGE contorting as the pliant flesh was pulled and dragged by the weight of his strokes. He leant his head back and exhaled a great breath.

In reflection Jericho was a pest. Persistent and utterly ruthless in his assault on Punk's mental mechanism. The Straight Edge Superstar was as frail as any child left alone without a word of comfort in the dark.

CM Punk opened a single eye and the glitter of glass caught his eye in a flash of brilliant poison.

A bottle of Jack Daniels sat on the table. It's vivid grease of intoxication sat in a state of gold. It almost…shimmered underneath the artificial light of the lights above. Looking at the space behind the bottle made the walls and the room seem distorted in a gold-ish contortion. The walls heaved and hoed, they breathed they wriggled and the seemed to be so flexible, so malleable that it was possibly the sober man witnessing intoxication through the eyes of a bottle. Even the drink knew how to twist the walls mind into a numbing, twisting mind.

_Even through the darkest days…_

CM Punk couldn't stop watching the way it distorted the world through it's hazy tipped glasses. The way it collided with the way things looked and deconstructed them into a blurry, twisted vague mess of a thing.

Punk squeezed his eyes together, trying to kill down this sudden desperation to put bottle to lips. To feel the liquid gold slide down his throat and bathe his guts in an imperishable gold. His blood sung this perverted lullaby for it. A bent thing, it was. He was bent. So bent for this liquor. So utterly failing of thirst all of a sudden. So…dehydrated for the liquor cure. His brain thumped and his body was drenched in a feeling of heat. He needed something…just to…just to drown the thirst, the feeling. Numb his heart into a quiet, wet tranquility. Put his palpitations to sleep, and for once in his long life. His eyes would close for a few hours, a minute even. So he could get some rest. Dwell in an elsewhere, the territory of the sandman. West his wicked, weary head and maybe the red blush under his eyes might ripen a little.

Punk got up, and walked to the table with that charming fellow in a bottle just sitting there. It was just sitting there, waiting to be used.

Punk let his fingers wind around it's neck. Choking the glass swan as he lifted it up. And pursued his lips around the cut head.

And oh how it burned.

_This fire burns…_

Oh how it burned…the only liquid in nature to burn and drown you in a searing heat. The musky liquid slipped down his throat so easily. Again, and again Punk choked this bottle's neck and drank the liquefied guts of this soon to be…empty bottle.

_This fire burns always…_

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_Punk must have sat there for what seemed like hours. Raw was packing up, and he was still there. Very much unpacked, and a bottle of whiskey in hand. There was a fear, it was dripping out of his fingers so limply that it might crash and burn. Punk's eyes were low lidded, thick roots of blood striking the whites of his eyes with a vicious tear through them. Like a river of blood flooding through._

_Punk couldn't feel anything. There was a total, pure medicated numbness that felt so good. Punk could touch infinity with his very fingers; he could feel the way his blood cells were set on fire._

_Punk was so lured, and in utter love with the romantic way his nerves buzzed under his skin, and how his brain couldn't think or come up with anything above the sea level it was stuck in. The murky waters of clarity. Nothing infront of you, and the things behind you totally obscured from memory. They were hazy, like how being born was a phantom to you. Maybe…Punk thought. Maybe this was what it was like being born. So drunk on the sea of your mother's blood you were beyond saving by the coast guard. They pulled you out, but your lungs were so drenched in the wicked cherry red of mummy's bleeding guts that you couldn't remember shit. Your memory was beyond saving, deconstructed as it was._

_And so, Punk smiled and laughed drunkly, gawkily as he pretended he was being born again._

_Punk didn't think the sound of a door opening was part of his birth memory. You didn't open doors to be born, things just…parted._

_Like the red sea. You were Moses, parting the red sea of your mothers…god that's sick. His mother's vagina was probably not the best scenery of a drunk's castle in the sky._

_Hahaha Punk laughed._

_"P…..nk..?"_

_Someone was growling. Someone was sighing. The door had closed, he thought and now somebody was breathing in his elsewhere. Someone was busy existing in his rabbit hole he had dug. Fuck, was he late? Was he very late? Shit. What? Punk was so inebriated by delirium decorated by this daydream; he could barely discern the slithering of snakes in his head._

_"Fuck off…" He slurred, throwing the bottle some…where._

_Randy Orton stood there, towel in hand as he watched an intoxicated drunk CM Punk throw his almost empty bottle of whisky around. He was slipping off the bench, like his bones were absent, or they two had suddenly absorbed all this hallucinatory liquor._

_Orton rubbed the back of his head and chuckled. "Jericho getting to you, I see."_

_Punk growled. "No. The bastard…The bastard…the…what? Wait. The bastard, fuck. He said I was a bastard….fuck…my face hurts." Punk moaned trying to push himself back up into an erect position of seating. But in the process, his hand slipped and he fell to the ground. He laughed, and the way it broke in the middle and fell. Tumbling down his tongue like a sordid little prayer made the Viper almost feel sorry for him._

_Almost._

_"Yeah, I'm pretty sure a lot of kids are. Marriages are all based on misplaced genitals and semen, trust me." Orton looked to Punk. "Your not the first to be a product of your parents hazy sex faces." The Apex Predator began to fix up his bag, shoving his towel in. his hair wet, and his face still a little damp from the shower. His teal RKO T-shirt clung tightly to his body, allowing the bulges of his body to blossom with a quaint subtlety. The Viper was indeed, a peacock of sorts. Perfect, no tail misplaced and no misplaced feather._

_His arms perfectly illustrated with just enough colour to satiate the shades and colourless devices of some._

_Punk's lips were dry, and he took another drink as the Snake in front of him packed. Punk tried to focus on The Viper, tried to see him with all the abilities of a man whose eyes were utterly inflamed with the drinks rose tinted glasses. Punk got up, managed to haul himself up from his puddle on the floor. He tried to keep a balance that wouldn't let him tumble again, he wavered, back and forth but managed to keep himself from crashing._

_"Your…Your…" Punk swallowed and wiped the edge of his mouth. "Your…Fuck, Randal stop…stop making two of you…god…twins? Oh fuck can you multiply? Like clone yourselffffff…Randal…stop moving."_

_Orton chuckled and had to admit there was a certain joy in a drunk Punk. The way he wavered and slurred his usually silver tongue was amusing, and not exactly an everyday occurrence. His Straight Edge declaration, religion demanded no usage of liquor or any of its fellows in the addictive pool of things that existed._

_"So, I guess the your having a little break from Straight Edge, right?" Randy tried to look into Punks falling face. The Chicago native was having fun trying to keep still and trying to make Randy remain static and stop cloning himself._

_"Shuddup. I…I'm straight…straight…Christ nothings straight….everything's swirly…Get-get the fuck out." Punk grabbed a chair and tried to throw it, but it simply dribbled out of his fingers as he attempted to haul it over his shoulders. "Chair not cooperating…" He slurred trying to kick it, but missing by a meter._

_Orton sat down and watched the swaying human being. He was utterly bombarded by the drinks natural ability to really fuck you up bad. Randy leaned his elbow against his knee and watched with a smirk on his face. Here was the Straight Edge Superstar, whirling in circles and narrow corners. Totally, and utterly drunk. Oh the irony._

_"Get out…fucking…get out Orton. It's my locker room..."_

_"Sure is, what are you going to do? Hit me?"_

_"Yeah…no…I'll round house kick you into infinity." Punk giggled as he literally fell face forward into Orton's lap, arm slung over his thigh like a damp fairy. Randy wiped his nose as the offending stench of total inebriation perfumed the atmosphere with volatile fragrance. The stench of a drunk truly did not properly reflect the calm and the colours of the drunk's reverie, his fantasy._

_Orton felt a warmth flood through his jeans, and heard a muffled laugh as Punk buried his head into Orton's thigh. Randy had no experience with aiding the emotionally distraught. And being drunk was as emotionally distraught as it got. People got so distraught to the point where drowning their feelings till they couldn't feel feelings anymore was the only way to medicate. Randy lifted his arms and tried not to touch the fallen Superstar, he looked away and tried not to concentrate on the heat seeping through his pants and the way his skin was riddled with goosebumps, no longer a peacock and more a goose. The Viper snorted and ignored the flailing man. He was sweaty, cold and still in his wrestling gear. It wasn't odd to fall on him should both of them be in their wrestling gear, the oddity arouse when one of them was fully clothed. The outside world didn't really adhere to the same rules as Professional Wrestling. Nudity was preferred, natural. Fully clothed was…abnormal, totally bizarre, really._

_"…You're breathing on me Punk." Orton said matter of fact._

_"I need to breathe or I'll diiiieeee Randaaallllll…hehee" The drunk replied._

_"Shit…" Randy mumbled under his breath._

_A few minutes passed as Punk took a breather, a lot of breathers. So much breathers it was getting ridiculous. Randy's leg was going to sleep and Orton hoped the same couldn't be said of the Chicagoan. Or otherwise Orton was just going to have to kick him like a bag of puppies._

_The silence was scary and surplus to requirements. But, Orton preferred it to Punks incoherent babbling._

_Then, a soft murmuring from Orton's covered thigh._

_A wetness._

_Punk was crying._

_FUUUCK. Was all Randy could think to say._

_What did tradition call for? This was ridiculous! Randy wasn't equipped with the ability or the foresight to deal with the mental fragilities of a humanity. He wasn't used to the delicate breaking down of peoples minds. He caused them, he didn't help them as everything crashed from the inside out. He wasn't used to crying children, or soothing the sick and the injured. He was an Apex Predator, he killed things and ate meat and slept with danger and caused the crashes, he didn't help put them back together._

_But, Randy looked down to the wet CM Punk, with his murmuring hushed cries and his small fingers, and Randy, against all predictions of his own disposition and character. Against every ounce of what he knew he would do, Orton did the only thing he figured normal, emotional, stupid human beings did._

_Orton put his hand on Punk's back, and said nothing. He let Punk cry._

_Turn away from yesterday, tomorrows in my eyes.  
_

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**_Lyrics in italics is obviously, Punks old Theme song. :) I hope you like it, it's a little different than what im use to, but I listen to alot of Instrumental Piano pieces while I write, helps me concentrate and I was inspired, i suppose :)_**


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